As the Truth Unfolds
by auroralightsorchestra
Summary: When a Member of Parliament's daughter is kidnapped, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes is on the case. Where police expect a ransom, a directive is given instead; tell the truth. As things unravel, it becomes clear that this case is more deeply personal to Sherlock than anyone could have ever imagined.


**Disclaimer: **Sherlock is owned by Sir Conan Arthur Doyle (or is it Arthur Conan? Hmmm…) and the BBC. So definitely not mine. No matter how hard I begged Santa :'(

**Story Title: **As the Truth Unfolds

**Chapter Title: **The Darlingtons

**Summary: **When a Member of Parliament's daughter is kidnapped, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes is on the case. Where police expect a ransom, a directive is given instead; tell the truth. As things unravel, it becomes clear that this case is more deeply personal to Sherlock than anyone could have ever imagined.

**Rated: T **for language and sexual references

**AN: **This story is set about eleven years in the future. The reason for this will become clear later on, but I'm sure we can all agree that Benedict Cumberbatch will probably only get sexier with another ten years to develop his sexiness, so we don't mind that, do we?

Also, the Darlington family isn't a real family in British politics, as far as I know. I just picked the name because it sounded posh.

Lastly, I don't mind constructive criticism. In fact, I will need it, as this is the first story I have ever published. But it's when things turn flame-worthy that I will become a vicious dragon right back.

I hope that you enjoy the story (and that people actually read it…)

.:~{+}~:.

The Darlingtons

.:~{+}~:.

_16 May, 2025, 3:22pm_

After the first three rings, Seraphina became certain that no one was going to answer the phone. When Dad was home, he always picked up on the very first ring, as he was almost always sat at his desk. Mum either picked up just after the second ring, or in the middle of the third ring. Still, she waited it out until she heard a click and the auto tone of the answering machine.

"Hey Mum, Dad. It's Seraphina. I just wanted to ring and say that I stayed behind for a bit after school to talk to my teacher about an assignment, so I might be a bit late coming home. Anyway, I'll be there in a bit. Bye, I love you!"

Seraphina continued to walk, trying to catch the attention of a taxi cab. Unfortunately, cabs weren't eager to stop for ten-year-old girls. The cabbies tended to assume she didn't have any money. Some of the more observant ones would notice that she was wearing the uniform of a preparatory school and was therefore likely came from a wealthy family, but most people simply didn't notice these things.

She sighed in frustration. People were so stupid. Because of that stupidity, she often had to make the seven-mile trek from Wembley to Mayfair.

At least she was physically fit.

Later, after her fifth failed attempt to hail a taxi, forty minutes into her hour and a half long walk, Seraphina slid her phone out of her blazer pocket to check the time. _4:00pm_.

The traffic of London whizzed by her. She walked along the uneven pavement at a steady pace, resigned at this point to walking the rest of the way home. She was just passing a car parked up along the pavement when she was unexpectedly grabbed from behind. Surprised, she went to cry out, but her nose and mouth were quickly covered. She immediately became drowsy and her brain provided her with an explanation lightning-fast.

_Chloroform. I'm being kidnapped._

Everything went black.

.:~{+}~:.

_16 May, 2025, 6:03pm_

_Bzzz bzzz. Bzzz bzzz. Bzzz bzzz._

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock hissed at the vibration of his phone in his suit pocket. It was the second time it had tried to get his attention in the last ten minutes. He was attempting to conduct an experiment!

Two minutes later, it buzzed again.

"Oh, for God's sake!" he roared. He viciously pulled the slim device from his breast pocket.

It was bloody _Mycroft_. Why would he wish to speak to _Mycroft_?

_**16/05/25, 5:53pm**_

_I have a case for you. It is urgent- MH_

_**16/05/25, 6:03pm**_

_By urgent, I mean contact me immediately- MH_

And the newest:

_**16/05/25, 6:05pm**_

_It involves Seraphina- MH_

He stopped breathing momentarily. When he realized his ridiculous reaction, he grit his teeth in frustration at himself. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take several deep, even breaths. He mercilessly and ruthlessly shoved any and all emotion that the texts had elicited into a dark, little-used room in his mind palace.

Once he was completely sure he was calm, he stood from his place at the kitchen table, abandoning his microscope and its specimen, shooting off a quick text to John.

"Mrs Hudson," he called as he descended the stairs of Baker Street, "I have a new case. Don't expect to see me anytime soon."

"Oh, but Sherlock-"

He closed the door before she could finish speaking, already hailing a cab.

As he texted Mycroft, the cabbie hurtling down the streets of London, he cursed himself.

He'd always known sentiment was a weakness.

.:~{+}~:.

_16 May, 2025, 6:03pm_

Two blocks down from 221B Baker Street, John Watson sat at a dining table, enjoying dinner with his wife Mary and their two children, eight-year-old Jack and six-year-old Emily. His children were inevitably blonde, as both he and his wife were, but Jack had Mary's green eyes while Emily had John's blue, and both children were small and fine-boned, like their mother, rather than having John's stocky build.

Their delicate colouring and appearance made them look so very innocent, but John knew better. They were horribly loud and frighteningly energetic and exhaustingly emotional. They would be the death of him, John just knew it.

And he adored them beyond all reason.

"Can't you just tell me what my present is?" Jack whined. He was turning nine at the end of the month and had been trying to guess his birthday present for the last two weeks.

"No!" Mary said, reaching over to ruffle his fair hair as he shovelled mashed potatoes unattractively into his mouth. "Then it wouldn't be a surprise. And slow down, you'll choke if you keep on like that."

"No I won't," Jack claimed stubbornly, pouting even as he slowed down.

"Yes you will!" Emily sing-songed from next to him.

They had just begun an argument in the form of 'no I won't's' and 'yes you will's' when John's text alert went off. Mary looked at him from the corner of her eye as she tried to calm the children. The only person that ever texted during dinner was Sherlock, which usually meant a case.

Sure enough:

_**16/05/25, 6:09pm**_

_We have a case- SH_

The text came with an attachment that contained an address. John whistled lowly. "Bloody hell, that's in Mayfair!" He wondered who their client was, living somewhere as expensive as Mayfair.

Jack and Emily burst into giggles. Mary whipped her head to John, eyes wide in warning, but he could see her trying not to smile. "John! Don't swear in front of the children!"

But John was already refocusing on the text message. There was something very familiar about that address.

"Jesus, that's where George Darlington lives!"

Mary's eyebrows rose, abandoning her attempt to quiet the children. "What, the MP?"

"Yep, sorry, got to go love,"

And with a round of hugs and kisses goodbye, John was out the door.

.:~{+}~:.

_16 May, 2025, 6:15pm_

The house on Mayfair was very large indeed. The family was clearly quite wealthy, though Sherlock didn't need his deductions to tell him so. The Darlingtons were notoriously well-off. When Lestrade let Sherlock in through the front door, the lights of the police cars outside splashing red and blue across it periodically, the expression of surprise had been apparent on the Detective Inspector's face.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock? Seems like a pretty straight-forward ransom kidnapping. Didn't think this'd be your cup of tea."

He'd already deduced that there must have been a kidnapping, but the affirmation of it into fact stilled him for a very brief, almost unnoticeable moment.

"Mycroft called," he said lowly, stalking into the house.

A large family portrait hung on the wall directly opposite to the front entrance. It would be the very first thing anyone ever saw when entering the house. So, for the Darlingtons at least, the family unit was the core of their life. The portrait contained a well-dressed family of three. Father, George Darlington, red-gold hair and the easy smile that made him popular among his constituents. His arm was around his wife's shoulders, rather more warmly than was usual of a family so prominently within the public eye, so, that signalled a solid, strong relationship. His arm was angled in such a way that might be seen as uncomfortable for the wife, Ivy, and therefore could be considered controlling, but Mrs Darlington's hand was connected to her husband's on her shoulder, fingers linked, clearly keeping his arm there. A welcomed protective gesture then. Both parents were stood behind and angled towards the child in the picture, who looked to be around seven or eight at the time the portrait was taken. She was centre in the picture, making it clear that she was the centre of the Darlingtons' lives. Long dark curls, slanted blue eyes, rather long limbs, a pretty little thing. Her relaxed posture signalled comfort, a sense of belonging.

Seraphina.

Sherlock faintly heard the doorbell as he stood analysing the portrait, and Lestrade's voice as he let someone inside.

"Alright, so what's our case then, Sherlock?"

The detective blinked, momentarily surprised by John's sudden appearance next to him.

"Kidnapping," he stated succinctly. "Based on the prominence and wealth of the family, I'd say a ransom will be involved."

John's brows furrowed. "Wait… so Seraphina Darlington's been kidnapped then?"

Sherlock nodded sharply, taking one last long look at the portrait. He was certain he'd deduced everything possible from it.

"Okay… um… isn't that… I don't know… a bit straight-forward for you?"

Sherlock hummed before leaving behind a slightly confused John Watson in favour of looking further into the house.

As he entered the rather large sitting room, he noticed the house phone atop a glass side table, the flashing red light on it indicating a message. The house was crawling with police presence, and even they weren't so stupid as to ignore the phone when expecting a kidnapper to call and demand a ransom payment. Clearly, the message had been saved for a reason, very likely by the Darlingtons themselves. Ah, a message from Seraphina, then. Her last contact with her parents, if their sentimentality was anything to go by.

On the couch, he could see Ivy Darlington being questioned by a police officer, her husband massaging his temples and staring out of the back wall of windows in distress.

"When did you first realize your daughter was missing?"

Mrs Darlington's light green eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip and shook her head, her black hair swinging around her face. She was too old for the colour to be natural, fifty, but he'd seen from photos around the room that she'd had black hair as a teenager and child as well.

She took a deep, fortifying breath before speaking, and Sherlock felt like snapping at her to hurry up. Distressed people did take so very long to speak. Oh, how he despised sentimentality.

"Well, we thought she was just a bit late, to be perfectly honest. She called at twenty past 3, you see, to say she'd been held up after school and that she would be late. We thought she might be home around 4:00, if she managed to catch a cab, but when she has to walk, it takes her quite a while to get home, so when 5:00 came around and she still wasn't home, we were starting to look out for her, but we still weren't alarmed. We started trying to call her mobile at quarter past, but she wasn't answering. By 5:30 though, we knew it had progressed to more than 'a bit late', and she still wasn't picking up her phone, so we… we called the police."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in frustration to keep from screaming at the woman. Her last point of contact with her daughter had been at 3:20pm, and she hadn't attempted to call the girl until 5:15. That left an almost two-hour gap in which the child could have been kidnapped, making it significantly harder to pinpoint the how, where and _when_.

Mrs Darlington looked away from the officer, leaning forward to grab a tissue from the glass centre table. As she dabbed at her eyes, she noticed Sherlock.

"Oh, Mr Holmes!" she gasped, standing, a look of mingled apprehension and relief crossing her face. Her husband turned at the sound of the name, his hazel eyes widening as he took notice of the famous Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes, standing in his home.

Sherlock's mind noted and deduced the couple in seconds. Haggard appearances. Both were normally very careful to keep up good appearances due to their spot in the public eye. They had only known that Seraphina was missing for a little over an hour. Such a rapid deterioration in appearance spoke volumes.

They were absolutely, completely devastated.

Not that he'd thought that they'd had anything to do with their daughter's disappearance. No, the multitude of pictures of the girl in the first two rooms alone signalled an adoration too deep for the child to be anything less than loved and wanted, but Sherlock was gratified by the evidence that his initial assessments had been correct.

"Do you realize what this means?" he asked the couple sharply as John reappeared at his side.

Mrs Darlington's eyes widened in surprise, the apprehension in her gaze growing stronger.

"D-do I realize what what means?" she asked.

"Your story. Your daughter rang you at 3:20. You did not attempt to contact her again until 5:15, at which point she was surely already missing. That leaves an almost two-hour gap. She could have been kidnapped absolutely anywhere between here and her school! I suppose you don't even know how long she'd been travelling by the time she rang, do you?"

Mrs Darlington sniffled, blinking back tears as she shook her head.

"Useless," Sherlock sneered to himself, but it was clear the Darlingtons had heard him.

"Sherlock!" John said from next to him, in that tone he always used when he thought Sherlock needed to apologize. The detective merely rolled his eyes, turning to his shorter friend.

"I am not here to be _nice_, John. I am here to locate a missing girl."

And with that, he stalked off to investigate the rest of the house, deeming the parents fairly useless at this point. Because it was true. As far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, his one and only mission was to find Seraphina Darlington, and to find her _alive_.

.:~{+}~:.

_16 May, 2025, 6:34pm_

Seraphina blinked drowsily, confused. Her head felt fuzzy and her skull ached. She couldn't see anything, not even when she physically held her eyes open with her fingers in an effort to prove to herself that no, they were not in fact still closed. For one terrifying moment, she thought she'd lost the sense of sight.

But then her brain kicked in. About three feet away from where she was laying on her left side, on something that squeaked when she moved- felt like an old bed- she could see a sliver of light near the floor. Not blind, then. That must be where the door was. The light indicated there was probably someone on the other side. It had the dark orange glow of a lamp lit in the evening. Intimate. She was in someone's house, then. It could only be her kidnapper's house- she remembered the Chloroform- so she refrained from banging on the door and asking for help from whoever was on the other side, recognizing that that would be useless. There was a damp smell, and even though she couldn't see anything, the room she was in _felt_ small. Some sort of cellar-like storage space then?

Sitting up slowly, her head spun. The darkness disoriented her even further and it took all her willpower to not be sick on the floor. The lower half of her face itched viciously, and she suspected it was from the Chloroform. It was a long shot, but she reached for her blazer pocket-

And no phone. They'd obviously taken it off her.

She thought about going to the door and trying the handle, but recognized it as another long shot. She'd most likely be locked in, and if her kidnapper really _was_ on the other side, she didn't want to draw their attention by jiggling the handle.

She leaned against the wall behind her. For now, it seemed, all she could do was wait.


End file.
